Funeral Rearranged is Real Fun
by Cannibal Glow
Summary: Frerard. “Oh,” he whispers, breaking our kiss, but my teeth are keeping his bottom lip in my mouth, “God.”
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! Welcome to my new swing at Frerard. I hope you enjoy. =)**

**DISCALIMER: NO, THIS DID NOT CANNOT WILL NOT AND EVERY OTHER KIND OF NOT HAPPEN OR HAPPENED. OKAY? OKAY.**

I roll over on my bed, throwing the adventures of some underrated superhero to my cheap carpet. I'll read it some other time, when I have a clear mind. You know when you're positive something horrid will happen to you? How the air gets still and the world seems to turn slowly? It happens when someone you know dies, or something breaks when it isn't meant to. You don't want to know what has gone wrong when it happens, you want to put it behind you and distract yourself. Today, I cannot put my mind from the still, dreadful feeling. My boyfriend was supposed to call me three hours ago so we could hang out. I've been worried for him lately; he hasn't been his usual self. He told me he'd explain why tonight, because he knows I've been horribly worried for him. I've been trying and trying to invent more excuses with each passing hour, but I can't anymore. I have to call him, at least. I snatch my cell phone from its spot beside me and press speed dial one. The phone rings. I want to hear Des's velvet voice, I want him to tell me he was shopping or bungee jumping or something. But no such luck. The phone rings a few more times. This isn't like him. He always picks up second ring when he sees it's me. I get his voicemail, and leave a shaky-voiced message of, "Hey, Des. It's Gee. I don't know where you are, but call me back, okay?"

I hang up, unsatisfied. I thought calling him would make me feel better, somehow. Like hearing his voice would calm me down, but seeing as I haven't, I have to walk to his house. My stomach is fast becoming unsettled and I feel like vomiting. That omniscient feeling that something bad has happened is slowly creeping over me, from my feet to my head. I leave my room and snatch a jacket before I head out the door. It's only seven o'clock, so my parents don't ask questions. They know I'll be at Des's. They don't know he and I are dating, but they do know he's my best friend. I'm always over at his house, pretty much. Since we started dating a year ago, there hasn't been a week that's gone by where I didn't sleep at his house, or he at mine.

I walk more briskly than is natural for me to Des's place, where all the lights are on, but there's no car in the driveway. My heart beats fast. I don't want to think about why this is. I just want to see Des playing video games with his little sister, telling my he lost track of time as he pulls me into his arms. Any scenario would be good, actually. He could be asleep, because he said he wasn't getting much sleep lately. I jog up the stairs to his door, and knock. There isn't an answer. I knock again. No answer. I try the handle, and the door creaks open. The atmosphere in this house isn't normal. I can sense it, even before I see anything, something happened. Something bad. "Des?" I call, my voice wavering. "Des?"

There isn't an answer.

I pad around the house, to the bathroom. I don't know why I look there first, perhaps because I can sense the disaster. I turn on the light, and sink to my knees, for I was right. Something terrible happened. The weeks of depression, the lack of sleep, all the strange behavior, they all add up at this moment. The little, dried up river of Des's blood stretches from Des's lifeless body to my shaking one. I hear horrible noises, these guttural wails, but I don't know the source. I realize a split second later that they are my own sobs. I'm so disconnected from my own body that I cannot tell when I'm crying. I crawl over to Des, and take his limp, red-stained hand in mine. I see the lacerations on his two arms, one for each, stretching jaggedly from the wrists to the biceps. I touch it, to make it tangible, and realize the gravity of the situation. Desmond is dead. He is not my baby anymore, he will never hug or kiss me or caress my cheek like he did just yesterday, ever again. It is an empty feeling that I hate, but it ceases my tears. I wipe the bottoms of my eyes with my jacket sleeves and settle Des's body back the way I found it. I slowly back out of the bathroom, focusing all my energy on breathing in and out. I go into his room, again, from some unknown compulsion, and I find a piece of paper laying on his bed. I flick on the light, sit down on the bed, and read the paper. It's in Des's handwriting, but the handwriting is extremely shaky.

_Sometimes,_ it reads, _love is not enough. I know it's difficult to understand why I did this, but I hope that in time, you all will. I also know that, mum and dad, you loved me more than it's even possible to imagine. And I love you, too. If it were for love alone, I would still be here. But it wasn't. Reasons? There were none that I could begin to explain, but take it from me, it's better off this way. Take care of Annie for me. Teach her how to ride a bike. We were gonna do that this weekend. Tell her I went in a noble way. You'll think of something. I'm sorry to have done this to you._

I blink back tears. The handwriting gets shakier after that part, and there are stains on this section of the paper. _Gerard, I love you. You are the best, kindest human being there has ever been. You kept me going this past year. Without you, I would be long dead. Please understand, I wanted to stay for you. I just couldn't. Please, don't forget me, but don't linger either. Make someone else as happy as you made me. Help my parents take care of Annie. I love you, I love you, I love you. Look in our place. You'll find something. I love you. I miss you. Sorry for not calling. _

_I love you all, _

_Des._

I begin to sob again. I can't fathom this. I can't swallow it. Those last words got to me worst of all. Leave it to Des to apologize for not calling me. But he said to look in our place. That's his closet, where he and I kept things we found funny, or wanted to give to the other, or hide, or whatever.

I set the note down gingerly and shuffle over to the closet. I pull the door open and there sits a hoodie, another slip of paper, and a tiny box. The paper says, _For my baby. _That means me.

I unfold the hoodie, which turns out to be the Iron Maiden one I'd always coveted of his. He said he'd give it to me, if I pried it out of his cold, dead fingers. I burst out in a fit of giggles. Only Des would remember that and turn it into a sick fucking joke. Only he would have tried to make me laugh in these circumstances. I put the hoodie on over my jacket, and it smells like he used to. I breathe deeply, burying my nose in the fabric. I reach out and grab the tiny box with the hinged lid. I pop it open, and inside it is a silver chain with a cross on it. There's nothing special-looking about it, but I start crying harder because it _is _special. I recall at the exact same moment two things. One, this necklace is the one I spied in the jewelry store a few months ago. I really liked it, and I thought it was cool. Des had nodded, seemingly aloof, but I had a feeling I'd see it again. And two, I remember the date. It's our one-year anniversary.

I don't know what to do. I need to call someone. I can't call the police, or his family, or mine. I get my cell phone and scroll through my contacts to find Frank.

Frank was Des's best friend. Is? Was? I don't know the tense to use with a newly-deceased person. I don't like to think of Des as dead, so I think is would be right, at least to console me. He and Des were- are pretty close. Like, not as close as Des and I or anything like that, but nobody's been as close to me as Des. I think I should at least call him and tell him what's up, as opposed to having him hear it through the grapevine.

I press 'talk' when I hit Frank's name, and he answers on the third ring. "Gerard?" he asks. "What's up?"

"Dude, I hate to call at a bad time, but like, Des is gone." My voice cracks on the last word. Now, it's real. Now, someone knows. Now, Des is dead.

"Gone?"

"As in he's dead."

"You better not be fucking kidding me," Frank says severely.

"I'm not. I just came over and I found him, and like..." I trail off, blinking back more tears.

"Stay right there. I'm driving over."

I hang up the phone and sit still on Des's bed, sniffing my hoodie, playing with my necklace chain, reading the note over and over to the point where I could recite it, until I hear the door open. "Gerard?" a familiar, deep voice calls. "Where are you?"

"In here," I choke out weakly. I stand up from the bed and take a few steps out, so Frank can spot me. I see him walking past the hallway, so I clear my throat. He turns on his heel and sees me. We both make for eachother at the exact same moment, running and collapsing in the other's arms. It's the tightest hug I have ever experienced, but I have a feeling I'm squeezing back harder.

"Fuck, dude," Frank murmurs into my shoulder. "Fuck," he squeaks, and I feel his shoulders heave as he starts to wail, much like I did when I found Des.

"I know," I coo, rubbing his back.

"Wait," Frank says, lifting his head. "I feel like a dick. Here I am, crying on your shoulder, and you were his guy. How are _you_ feeling?"

"Numb," I reply frankly. "D'you wanna see him?"

"I dunno. Should I? How bad is he?"

"Dude," I say. "Like, as bad as you can get. He's..." I trail off, not wanting to repeat the word.

"That's true. Ah, yeah, then. I'll see him. Where is he?"

"Bathroom."

I lead Frank to the bathroom and he does the same as I did. He falls to his knees and stares at Des. Or, Des's shell, at least. "I knew he was depressed," Frank says quietly, at length. "But I didn't know he was _that_ depressed, you know? If he'd asked for help, maybe we could've..."

"Nah, man. You know Des," I say, as brightly as I can. "Would he have seriously admitted defeat and asked us for help?"

Frank laughs weakly. "He would not have, no."

We both look at Des in silence for an immeasurable amount of time, Frank leaning into me and my head resting on his. We're so horrified and mesmerized and grief-stricken that we can't do anything else.

The door opens again, and it's Des's family this time. They're murmuring about why the bathroom lights are on and why there are pairs of shoes at the door. "Hello?" Des's dad calls, but Frank and I don't answer. We can't.

Des's dad's footsteps get closer, lumbering as they are. I sense him behind us, so I turn my head to look up at his horrified expression, and I say the only thing I can say. "Right?"

He starts crying violently for his son, which is understandable. Des's mom comes behind us and sees the scene, but she doesn't cry. She wants to, that much I can tell. Her pinched tone of voice as she talks to little Annie. "Sweetie," she says, "go to bed."

"But-"

"No buts! You're tired."

I hear little footsteps shuffle past and a door shut, and then I hear more footsteps come back. "How long has it been?" Des's mom asks, her voice sounding less strained, but more sad.

"I have no idea. I got here around seven fifteen and the blood was dry and stuff. OH! He wrote a note. It's in his room," I answer. It feels strange saying so many words at one time. I decide to not talk anymore. It seems out of place here.

I don't turn to look as Des's parents go to his room. I know they're in there, because there is quiet, almost inaudible sobbing. Frank speaks. "Bummer."

"Yeah."

"Anyone else feel weird?" he inquires.

"So weird."

"Ditto."

There are more footfalls behind Frank and I. "Gerard?" asks Des's mother.

"Yeah?"

"Can we speak with you a moment?"

I get up and touch Frank's shoulder from behind. He reaches his hand up to grab mine, as if to hold it there, but I have to go talk to Des's parents.

I follow his mom into his old room, and she says, right off the bat, "We can't seem to figure something out."

"Like, what?" I ask.

"The paragraph about you. We didn't understand you and Desmond were so close," replies his dad.

"We were pretty tight," I say, as deadpan as I can manage. It sucks to call a year-long, loving relationship 'tight'.

"But... not close like Frank?" Des's mom asks. I burst out laughing once more. I always did love her political correctness. She's this conservative lady who wouldn't say a curse word if her life depended on it.

"What you're asking is..." I say, wording it carefully before I say it, "if Des and I were like, together?"

Des's dad nods.

"Um," I say shyly, "yeah. Yeah, we were. Today is our one-year anniversary, actually. I'm sorry you had to find out like this... uh, if you want me to like, leave or anything I'd totally understand. You don't really need me and now you're probably uncomfortable, and I'm rambling so I'm gonna stop."

The response I get shocks me. Des's mom pulls me in close for a hug and whispers, "Thank you for telling me."

I rub her back in an attempt to console her, 'cause she's his mom and all, and I say, "Sorry for not saying anything. I hope you don't think it's my fault, or something. 'Cause we were doing so great. We were even supposed to hang out today..." I trail off for the umpteenth time today with a sniffle.

"Of course not! We would never!" Des's dad says.

"Cool, cool. Hey, um, I should get back to Frank, yeah? He's all alone..." I say, letting my voice drift. I seem to be doing that a lot tonight. I think of Frank, all alone, and it makes me sad. I don't know why.

They let me go and I head back to the bathroom, where Frank hasn't moved. "I keep thinking he's gonna move," he mumbles. "Like he's shitting us, you know?"

I laugh. "Yeah, I was hoping for that, too," I admit, sitting down beside him. I stare at his profile from the right side. He really does have a nice face. Him and Des have that in common. Very handsome features.

"So," Frank says, a little eagerly. "You and Des... like, you really loved eachother?"

"That we did. Or, at least _I _did. And from the sounds of his letter, he loved me too."

"That's awesome. I kinda wish I had that with someone."

"It's really good. But when they go away, you don't feel like you're there anymore. Like, you need them to live. I'm sure it's gonna hurt later, but now I just feel gone, too."

"What was the last thing you said to him?" Frank asks. "If you can remember."

I go a little pink. I absolutely remember the last thing I said to him, and it's really corny. "It, um," I clear my throat. "It was 'I love you to Orion's belt and back.'"

"Aw," Frank says. "That's good. My last words to him were, 'See ya tomorrow.' And I guess I did. Shit, aren't there people to like scoop him up and take him away?"

"I think so."

"Why aren't they here?"

"Beats me. Hey... do you want me to get anything?"

"Like what?"

"A blanket, a drink, a hug, I don't know. I'm gonna go to the kitchen and call my mom, so..."

"Can I take you up on all three?"

"Absolutely, you can. Give me five minutes."

"Yup."

I basically float to the kitchen, and take my cell phone out, and press speed dial two. The phone rings and my mom picks up. The sound of her voice, smooth like honey and the tone of a perfectly played harp symphony, gives me a lump in my throat that I have to fight in order to speak. "Hey, ma."

"Gerard? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine... um, Des isn't, though. He... he, like... mom, he _killed_ himself."

"W- what?"

"Yeah, just what I said. He cut up his arms in the bathroom, and, yeah..."

"Oh, my God. Are- is... who's there with you?"

"Des's friend, Frank, his parents, and his little sister's in bed."

"I see. Do you want me to come over there and get you?"

"Nah, I think I might stay a bit. Des's- err, Mr. and Mrs. Delahunt say that I can stay."

"If that's what you want. But are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just kinda shaken."

"Call if you need anything."

"I will."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, mom. Bye."

I hang up the phone and open the fridge. I get two cans of Diet Coke, and then I trek to Des's bedroom where his parents still sit. This is gonna be weird. "Hey," I say awkwardly. "Can I borrow one of his blankets?"

They seem to understand, even though I know they don't, and they gesture to what used to be his bottom drawer. There's a really soft blanket with the Misfits skull on it. I say thank-you and take the blanket and the Coke over to Frank. I toss him a can, sit down, and drape the blanket over both of us from the knees down. He pulls it up to his shoulders, and I notice for the first time that he's still wearing his jacket. I swing my arm around him, pull the blanket up to my own shoulders and squeeze his puffy winter coat. Frank leans his head on my shoulder, and I lean my head back down on his. He shrugs his jacket off after a time, I don't know how long, and wraps his arm around my waist. This is the first time since the last time that Des and I had sex that I'd been touched here. It's really low, like my belt-area, but the contact feels nice. I don't know what reciprocation is appropriate at this time, because I'm not sure of Frank's orientation, but I figure he must be cool with gay people. I turn my head slightly and press my lips really, really slightly to his forehead. "Thanks," he says dreamily. Like he had just been nodding off or something.

"Don't mention it," I say, guiltily as Des watches me through unopened eyes that will never see again.


	2. Chapter 2

Funerals are weird. I hate attending them, 'cause you have to dress up and mourn this person you'll never see breathing again. I had to go to one for my uncle some years back, and it was unpleasant. I had to sit by my mom, and she cried for her brother more than I cried for Des. My uncle had been embalmed, and it was open-casket. I was just this wee little thing, so I didn't quite get the concept. I just went up with my mom and dad and brother and stared at what used to be my uncle. There were prayers and tears and speeches, but I was more interested in the reception. The food was pretty good. My brother and I got tossed around from strange, tall person to strange, tall person telling us how much we'd grown and how cute we were and all that. But this... this is a different thing entirely. I know for a fact that Des would have hated to be here, had he been alive. I think, as he lay in his urn, just a pile of ashes now, how he hated fire. I remember all the times I used to scare him with my lighter, just putting it near his arm so he could feel its heat. I laugh to myself at the memories, and I get a gentle shove from Frank. We're sitting together in our black suits at the very front with Des's parents. I want to tell Frank why I'm giggling like a moron, but I'd be interrupting the priest. Yet another thing wrong with this blasted funeral. Des was baptized, yes, but he's never had any faith in Catholicism. He was a hedonist, not to mention gay. So all this bullshit coming from the bible does not apply to him.

My eyes blur when I hear them play Desolation Row by Bob Dylan overtop the eulogy. It was Des's favorite song, but fuck, couldn't they have gotten something _else _right? I don't need to hear this. We'd done so many things to this song. We'd shared headphones while in the mall, listening to this song on repeat. We'd danced to it in his room. He'd learned it on guitar, and I know every word, even though my vocals are nowhere near Dylan's. We used to jam to it. We even wrote more verses, and Des added in this wicked solo. We'd analyzed and debated the meaning of every part, but in the end we'd agree to disagree. And, more predominantly, we had used it to cover up the squeals and moans when we'd do it with people home. I flush a little at the memory and I put a hand to my face. That's one thing I'm gonna miss. Des always used to make me blush.

Finally, finally, finally the main bit is over and we all file into the reception hall of the church. I don't know how many people are here, though. Lots. Mostly his aunts and uncles and cousins and distant relatives who were in it for the free food. Okay, that's a little bit mean. But they didn't seem to care like I did in there. They didn't show emotion. But every so often, I'd feel eyes on me and look over to see Des's immediate family giving me sympathetic smiles.

Frank, my brother, Mikey and I all band together in one corner and talk to eachother. We don't have much business here, except to wait for our parents to pick us up. "Dude," Mikey says solemnly, and Frank and I both nod our heads.

"Yeah. This is way heavy," I add.

"Definitely. I don't know what to do with myself these days," Frank says sadly. "I can't hang out with anyone, 'cause Des was the only person I'd chill with."

"I can say the same. You know... you and I could like, hang out or whatever," I suggest nervously. I don't know why, though. Perhaps it's because up until now, we haven't talked since we left Des's house three nights ago. And I also know why that was.

When we were about to leave around midnight; Frank and I were standing on the doorstep, about to go our separate ways. I felt really strange, leaving Des's house discontented. I felt numb, and strangely invincible, like you do when you witness death. I tried to keep my reaction level, or normal, but I couldn't. I expected myself to cry more, or show emotion, but I didn't. I shivered at the cold as we accompanied eachother down the sidewalk. Frank noticed, and said, "You want a ride?"

"I don't wanna impose," I replied, shrugging. I really was capable of walking. It was cold, but it wasn't like a hypothermia type of cold.

"There's no imposition at all," Frank said with a smile. "I'd hate to see you freeze to death tonight. That'd just be the worst day ever, huh?"

I laughed. "Definitely."

So, he drove me home, and all the while he looked really troubled. More so than he had before. I noted the pinched look to his face, and how he kept looking at me from the corner of his eye, like I was gonna vanish, or something. His slight grimace distorted his face, and I didn't like that. Handsome people should be handsome all the time, if they can help it. So, I asked him about it. "Hey, you alright?"

"Yeah, I just feel kinda weird."

"You and me both."

"No... I mean... I mean I feel strange being here beside you. That is, you kind of kissed me, right? And ever since then, I can't stop thinking about it, like... like, I want you to do it again. It's stupid, and juvenile, and messed up for me, 'cause I don't like guys, but you... you're somethin' else," Frank rambled, stringing his words together in a way that made me barely able to understand him.

"Eh?" I asked, dumbfounded. I couldn't fathom being with someone other than Des. But it looked like that may be my only option. I thought it through logically. I would have to be romantic with someone else. It wasn't as if my boyfriend having killed himself made me asexual. He told me to make someone else as happy as I'd made him...

"I'm sorry," Frank admitted bashfully. "I should've never-"

I interrupted his words with my kiss. He was looking at me, so all I had to do was move an inch or so. I didn't go rough or anything like that, I just did it really softly. And it felt weird. Right but wrong but nice but strange, all at the same time. I pulled away, feeling like I cheated on Des, but like I was supposed to at the same time. It was nice, but I was uncomfortable, so I bolted.

And here we are. "Um," Frank says, visibly surprised. "Yeah! That sounds great! I'd love to chill with you more."

"Cool!" I enthuse.

"I feel kind of like an outcast in this," Mikey points out.

"Sorry, Mikey. I'm sure you remember how cool he was to you, though. Like he got you that Anthrax shirt for your birthday and he'd always let you stick around us."

Mikey nods. "Yeah. Shit, that sucks."

"Absolutely," Frank concurs.

I look on as Frank and Mikey carry a conversation. I stare at Frank, mainly. He certainly isn't as dear to me as Des was, and still is, but there's a tiny notion of something. I feel this particle, crammed into my despair, stirring slowly. It's like comparing a drop of water to a whole sea, though, this mild attraction I feel for Frank as opposed to the undying love for Des. It's something. It's better than being alone, for sure. Lately, I've been in need of some interaction. I know that I have to escape Des, but he also said not to forget him... it's all very confusing, but I'm in need of some consoling.

"I think," I say loudly, getting Frank to look directly at me, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

Frank raises an eyebrow at me and smirks with mischief. I nod my head the slightest bit and head for the restrooms. I have no intention of using this bathroom in the way it's undoubtedly intended for. I'm waiting for Frank to come in. I hope he got my quasi-signal, because I got his loud and clear. I fix my hair and loosen my tie in the mirror. I don't hear the door yet, and it's not until I take off my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my white button-up that Frank comes in.

Not a single word is spoken. Frank steps in front of me and I caress his face gently before I kiss him. I feel his hand creep lightly around my waist and he exhales through his nose, making a contented sigh sound. I find this time appropriate to use my tongue. I slide it out of my mouth and across his bottom lip, making his fingers involuntarily squeeze me tighter. "Oh," he whispers, breaking our kiss, but my teeth are keeping his bottom lip in my mouth, "God."

I growl quietly in agreement and begin untucking Frank's shirt from his dress pants. I slip my hands under his shirt and get a hold of his skin. It's quite soft, and I'm liking it. I rub methodically back and forth around his hips as we tongue. It's funny, I haven't kissed anyone but Des for so long, I forgot what it could feel like with other people. Like how everyone has their own style. Des used to be shy and demure at first, then turn into a bat out of hell. Frank started as a bat out of hell, and he still is. I'm not used to aggression right off the bat, but I discover it turns me on pretty fast.

I want this to escalate, so I move my hands downwards and to the front of Frank's pants. I work his belt until it's undone, and I use the two parts of it hanging away from him to pull him closer to me. I then slide it from his belt loops and throw it to the floor. I unzip his fly and undo the two buttons of his pants in order to get to my prize. I slip my hand down, into his boxers - also soft, like his skin - and take hold of a not-so-very-soft part of Frank. He gasps in both pleasure and shock, and we both open our eyes and look at the other. I pull my lips from his very slowly, and say, "Can I?"

Frank doesn't answer, but rather undoes my belt and pants at light fucking speed, making me gasp much like he did. I haven't felt this anticipatory fluttering in my stomach for a while. The one that occurs when you know something fantastic and hot is going to happen. Despite being relieved that I feel it, it also annoys me, like it annoys anyone who experiences it. Dipping his own hands into _my _boxers, he asks, "Can _I_?"

I respond by pumping my hands up and down once. Ere repeating my action, he begins kissing me once more, but with the aggro fury of an escaped lion. At this rate, I won't need his help, but I'm grateful for it anyways. I groan into his mouth and he into mine when our hands find a synchronized rhythm, picking up speed with the intensity of our moans and kisses. I finish before him, rather intensely because of the newness of all this. I bury my head in his shoulder and grit my teeth as I let out one last moan, muffled by his shirt. I keep building Frank up until he hits his peak a minute or so later, just as - if not more - intensely as me.

I realize in dismay, after I wash my hands, that I have made a bit of a mess in my boxers. I harrumph at the fact that I have to throw these out. Frank notices my noise and asks me what's up.

"I kind of wrecked these," I admit shyly, pulling the waistband of my boxers.

"I feel you," Frank says, looking down.

I start stripping out of my pants and those boxers, and Frank coughs nervously. "Relax," I say, "I'm just throwing these out."

I bury my underwear in the paper towels and such, and put my pants back on. This material doesn't feel nice without anything between myself and it, but I grin and bear it. After all, it was by my own devices that they're in the garbage. Frank does the same and says, "I never knew you could do that."

"I don't think it's illegal. Better than cum stains on your pants, wouldn't you say?"

Frank laughs and pulls up his pants. "Yeah, that's true."

"So, um," I begin a little awkwardly. "How was it for you?"

Frank exhales, as if confused about what to say. "I've never... done that before... so there's no basis for comparison... but that was... it was... wow," he states carefully.

"Glad to wow you."

"It's not just that, it's like... we're in the bathroom of a _church_ doing that together. Like, it turned me on beyond belief."

"You and me both, Frank."

"Call me Frankie."

"Call me Gee."

"Okay, Gee. Should we go back to Mikey? I'm sure he's pretty lonely."

"Good call, Frankie."

We walk very close by eachother back to the corner where Mikey is standing awkwardly against the wall, suspecting nothing, I hope. Although he's a bright kid, so I think he at least has an inkling of what happens around him. He raises an eyebrow at Frank and I and asks, "What took you two so long?"

"I had a little breakdown in the bathroom," Frank answers quickly. "Gerard made sure I was all good."

I nod in agreement, surprised at Frank's quick wit. I put my arm around his shoulders and give it a small squeeze. "He was bawling like a baby. But he's okay now. Right, Frank?"

"Better than okay," Frank purrs, although I think I'm the only one who construes it that way.

"Oh..." Mikey says, a little uncomfortably. "That's good, then."

We all talk some more and then my mom calls me. I know, it's a little inappropriate to have your cell phone during a funeral, but I don't think Des would have minded. "Hello?" I answer.

"Hi, Gerard. Do you want me to come get you and Mikey?"

"Uh, sure," I say, but I tell my mom to hang on because Frank taps me on the shoulder. "Yeah?" I ask him.

"Did you want me to give you and Mikey a lift?"

"Really?"

"Sure."

I talk to my mom again. "Actually, Frank offered us a ride. That cool?"

"Oh, that's fine. I'll see you when you get here."

"Yup. Bye, mom."

I hang up the phone and grin thankfully at Frank. I really have no desire to be away from him right now, and I don't give a crap about what Mikey wants right now. He goes where I go.

"Shall we head out?" Frank asks, gesturing to the door.

I walk out the door beside Mikey, and he doesn't say much. Probably because he doesn't care much who gives him a ride home. I think back on a few minutes prior, and while I feel satisfied and something different and weird for Frank, I also feel disgusted with myself. Des wouldn't have done that at my funeral, especially if I had said not to forget him. How could I? That was absolutely senseless... and it's so fucked up, 'cause I still love Des. It hurts that I do, because I can never tell him that or tell him that ever again. But at the same time, there's this spark I have in the pit of my stomach for Frank, and I can't very well ignore it. But that makes me feel selfish and an ungrateful boyfriend to Des, like I was just in it for nothing. And now I'm moving in on his best friend, who I don't quite know about. There is actually no level of certainty in my actions towards Frank. He seems to let me do things with him and he seems to want me to, but there has been no mention of sexuality. I don't know anymore. I want to remain faithful to Des since it feels like he's still the love of my life, but how am I to do that?

Frank unlocks the car doors and I crawl in the back. I don't need to be next to him. There's a lump in my throat and I don't like it there. I try and swallow it, but I can't. It feels like it's getting bigger and bigger and choking me more with every second. I attempt to clear my throat, not just swallow this shitty feeling, but the throat-clear gives way to a heaving sob. Frank and Mikey look back at me, but I smile tightly to let them know I'm fine. I try and rein it in, and I do, albeit uncomfortably. Tears roll silently down my face for Des, for my stupidity, and for everything.

We pull up to my house and Mikey thanks Frank before he goes inside. I can't move right now, nor do I want to. I don't want to go to my room and bawl alone. I need someone right now.

"Gerard?" Frank addresses me uncomfortably. "We're here."

I want to say, "Oh, so we are. Thank you, Frank, for the ride." But what I actually say, is "Oh, so- oh, _God_!" and I begin to cry violently. "I can't fucking _believe _it!"

I hear the car door slam, another open, and I feel Frank hugging me tightly. I'm quite literally brimming over with emotion. Mainly loss and confusion, but there's also some lust, some comfort and a little bit of nostalgia. I can't stop crying, nor can I form a coherent sentence. My pants are quite damp in on the thighs from my tears hitting them. My throat is killing me, as are my eyes. I know I look shitty, and I know I'm all red, and I know that if Des saw me right now he'd be kissing my forehead, telling me it was all gonna be alright. Frank's doing a fine job of comforting me, though. He's hugging me and rubbing my back, which always helps me when I'm upset.

I finally stop bawling after what seemed like a really long time, but was probably only five minutes. I laugh a little nervously and say, "Wow. Sorry about that one."

"No worries," Frank says quietly. "You helped me with that breakdown in the bathroom."


	3. Chapter 3

**Yoh, Drop The Dagger got reported eh. So I don't know if it'll stay up or not or if it's still up, or if I'll get banned or whaaaaaaaaaatever else, so yeah.  
Anyhow, sorry for not posting anything recently, my computer broke, wrote the first two chapters of this one on my old computer, got it back, had to re-format it, write another chapter, took a while. xD**

"I totally remember that!" Frank exclaims, laughing harder. "And then he just like, looked at you with the most embarrassed expression!"

"I know! Like, I thought he was coordinated enough to play soccer!" I agree, unscrewing another Oreo from the several boxes I have on my bed. There are other things, too. Jackets, shirts, several empty juice boxes and several more unopened ones. Frank and I are reminiscing about Des, which is something I thought I'd never do. But it feels really good to talk about him while eating shitty food like this, comfy on my bed and shirtless. We're both in sweat pants, he in borrowed ones and me in my favorite ones that Des gave me, with the claw marks on the back. I run a hand through my hair before licking the icing off the cookie in my hand and popping the top part into my mouth.

"Remember that other time," Frank pipes up, amidst giggles, "when we were all hanging out at the mall, and he went to put his arm around you at the food court, and he fell out of his chair?!"

I almost spit out my chewed up Oreo. "Oh, my God! Yes! He was so clumsy!"

Frank echoes my exuberant laughter, and he grabs an Oreo for himself. He doesn't eat all the separate parts, like me, he just eats the whole thing together. I don't see where the fun is in that. "Come to think of it," Frank says, chewing, "he was."

"Yeah..." I trail off, leaning back and resting my hands behind my head. I feel suddenly tuckered out. "Ugh, what a fucking sucky day this was."

"Hey!" Frank says defiantly.

"Oh, no, no. You were great, but this whole thing, like, the funeral and all. _That_ was the sucky part."

"Des always used to say 'sucky'," Frank muses.

"That's where I got it from," I say, smiling in spite of myself. "But can you believe it?! They _cremated _him! He was scared of fire!"

"I remember that!" Frank exclaims, less angry than me about it but riled up nonetheless. "Like, I'd put my lighter up to his arm, and-"

"See how long it'd take him to notice?" I ask, a little calmed down by the shock that Frank used to do the same thing I would.

"Yeah! He was always like," Frank says, making his voice a little higher in pitch for a sub par Des impression, "'Fuck off, Frankie! Gerard _always_ does that and it scares me so bad!'"

I laugh a little bit and take an Oreo. "Oh, man. That was a pretty fun game, eh? Vindictive, I'll admit, but fun."

"Definitely, dude."

"I remember this one time," I pause to stifle a giggle, "when he and I were at Bamboozle, we were walking around, right, and it was at least a billion degrees. I guess Des wasn't listening to me or something, 'cause I said something like, 'Fuck, dude, I feel like I'm on fire,' and he just looked at me like a deer in fucking headlights! And I was like, 'What?!', and he just kept staring until I realized it, and then I was like, 'Oh! I meant I was hot.'"

I recall that day and the aftermath. I fanned myself to show emphasis, and Des said, "I know you are." and he kissed me, but I really don't want to divulge that with Frank.

"We were such assholes about that, weren't we?"

"We were," I agree. "But he knew it was for shits."

I unscrew my Oreo and lick the middle. I see Frank watching from the corner of his eye and I ask, "What?"

"Can't you eat like a normal person?"

"I am!"

"Nuh-uh," Frank says, picking up a cookie and popping it in his mouth. "_This_," he continues, swallowing, "is how you eat like a normal person."

"Nay," I remark, "a boring person."

"Whatever. I think it's cool to not eat Oreos like a porn star."

I gasp and almost choke on the mouthful of icing I have. "Excuse me! Look at me in the face and tell me the icing isn't the best part."

Frank bursts out in belly laughs. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why he's laughing so hard. I just munch on the rest of my cookie and ponder. All I said was- oh. _Now _I get it. That's embarrassing. I feel my face go about ten billion degrees warmer, and Frank falls off my bed. I make an odd sort of squeaking noise and I cover my face with my hands. Damn, I hate being foolish.

"How," Frank gasps between laughs, "did you not notice that?!"

"Shut the fuck up," I say dejectedly. "I'm humiliated, hardy har har."

Frank climbs back up onto the bed and faces me, one hand holding his face up and one hand draped along his side. "Sorry if I upset you," he says modestly. "I didn't mean it."

I roll over to face him, and I smile at his expression. "Don't mention it, dude."

Frank looks uncertain for a moment, and he looks around the room before looking directly in my eyes. I notice the subtleties of his face I hadn't before, like the way the left side of his top lip is a little fuller than the right, his long eyelashes, and the way that his eyes seemed brown in the light of the car, but now are green in the light of my room. I like what I'm noticing, though. They suit him.

Then he moves a little closer to me. I don't mind it, really. I'm in a very Desmond-ish frame of mind right now, so I'm not sure if I want anything to happen between us at this particular moment, but I don't know. My mind isn't working properly today, in hindsight. Frank cranes his neck to press his mouth gingerly onto mine, and I do respond, but not in the hungry way I would have this afternoon. I'm perfectly happy to be in this moment with him with no anticipation of sex or anything like that. But after a few seconds, I don't want to kiss him anymore. The romance feels like it's been drained from my body entirely. I back away and tell Frank not right now. He understands and leans back. We talk more about Des and eat more cookies until I feel like it's alright to go again. I haven't a clue why my libido is working so weird today, but Frank doesn't seem to mind. He's apt to kiss me again, which makes me happy. I'm not rebuffed like I'm scared I would be, since I pushed him off a few minutes prior. We continually break the kiss in order to start it again, and soon enough Frank rolls on top of me, with me cupping his face in my hands and pulling him closer. Our legs are twined into a complicated knot, and Frank's breathing is becoming labored in the throes of passion. I don't blame him; mine is, too. And one, measly, fleeting thought about how I used to do this with Des puts me off the whole thing completely. I shove Frank off me and sit up with a start. "I-" I stutter, "I'm sorry."

"What's the matter?" Frank snaps, although I know he's trying to be patient with me.

"I... it's being here with you, in my room, like Des and I used to be, it's fucked up, sad deja vu and I don't like it. It's-it's not you, or anything."

"It's not me," Frank says jeeringly, getting off the bed. "It's never me."

"Frank," I plead, "Don't be that way... I can't-"

"Deal with it? It's fucking hard for everyone, okay? He wasn't only _yours_. And here I am, trying to move forward and help you the fuck out, and that's my thanks?"

"Sorry! But you're not exactly making it easy for me to have a clear enough head to do this sort of thing!"

"This sort of thing?!" Frank mocks. "Oh, spare me! This sort of thing is where you get me all worked up and you push me away! I'll do us both a favor and leave."

"Why are you being like this?! We're not even together!"

"I'd like to be! But you're making it _impossible_!"

"I don't get why you're so-"

"Angry?! I don't get why you're not! It's feeling something, it's tangible! If you're gonna sit and fucking mope all the time, then-"

"I didn't just mope!" I retaliate, barely absorbing any of what Frank said. "I-"

"You weren't at school since Des died! How the fuck do you explain th-"

"HE WAS MY BOYFRIEND! He had a year of my life! You don't just disregard that! And-and-and you don't know what it's like!"

"Fuck you, I 'don't know what it's like'! You don't know me," Frank yells, holding up one finger, "you don't _care_ about me," he holds up another, "and you're in love with a _fucking pile of ashes_! News-fucking-flash, Des is gone, and he's never, ever, ever coming back. And I've got to say, with you around, he had the right fucking idea," he snaps, and storms out the door. I don't say anything. I can't. If I speak, I don't know what will come from my mouth. Could be screams, could be words, could be nothing. It's anyone's guess, because I don't even know. If I don't have a decent handle on what to say, I won't speak until I know exactly what will happen.

I sit on my bed, in the exact same position, and stare at the wall for an immeasurable amount of time. I am unthinking, and I barely blink, barely breathe. I don't see the reasoning. Why go through the motions of living if there's no one to live for?

There's a knock on the door, and then it creaks open. I'm happier to hear Mikey's voice than one of my parents'. He has a greater understanding of my psyche than them, and perhaps even me. "Dude, is everything alright? I heard shouting."

I don't reply. I'm still not sure what'll happen if I do. The walls could melt, the apocalypse could come, or nothing could shift at all. "Gerard?" Mikey asks. "You okay?"

I want to talk, I really do, but I simply cannot. It's hard to explain if you've never experienced it, this mutism, but it really sucks. I take a deep breath, not wanting to worry my brother, and take my chances. "I'm fine," I murmur quietly. Cool, I can talk normally if I expend the effort.

"No, you're not."

"I'm good, I just need a minute, alright?" I mumble quickly. "Then I'll be out."

"Alright, call me if you need anything."

"Yup."

I fall back on my bed, back into silence, back into misery. I pull my comforter over me and melt into my mattress. I pay vague attention to my slowly darkening room, until I fall asleep at some point during the night or morning. My dreams are plagued with Des and Frank, but in the form of horrid nightmares. The most predominant of which involves a zombified Des haunting Frank and I wherever we go. He shuffles along, practically leaving limbs in his path. Chunks of flesh drop off him as he always manages to find me and Frank. He moans about something I don't understand, and I'm jolted awake. It's light in my room now; my white walls seem blue. I don't have the energy or will to look at my clock and judge time that way. It feels like midmorning. My eyes are a little sore, so I shut them. There's nothing worth seeing, really. Des is gone, and my only hope of normalcy stormed out on me. I am completely and utterly alone. The thought is damned depressing. Depressing enough, in fact, to make me stay in bed for extended periods of time. I can't feel right now, so I'm not hungry or anything like that. Shitty, maybe, but not really anything else.

I fall asleep at some point during the day and I wake up to orange light. Sunset. Like it matters even a tiny bit. I don't intend on leaving this room for a while. The sunset has no merit if I've nobody to enjoy it with.

I hear someone come into my room when black paints my walls, and there's a pressure on the end of my bed when they sit down. "Gerard?" asks the person, who has just identified herself as my mother.

"Yeah?"

"You've been in your room for a day now... are you alright?"

I want to scream at her for being so obtuse in asking if I'm okay. Of _course_ I'm not. I want to say that, but she's my mom. I know she's well-intentioned. "Just not feeling good," I reply plainly.

"That much is obvious, Gerard. Please just tell me what exactly is bothering you, and maybe I can help."

"Mom, you can't wake the dead."

"I know," she says, a little dejectedly, "but maybe I can talk to you about Desmond, and-"

"Des," I correct. "And no, I wouldn't like to talk. I'd like to lay here a while."

"You've already been laying there for long enough, sweetie. Talk to me."

My eyes moisten up. My mom always has this way of making me choke up when I'm holding something in. I don't understand. But I don't think now is the time to tell her about Des and I. Or what we used to be, anyway. Then again, how is she to understand what I'm going through if she thinks Des was just my friend?

I take a deep breath. "Fine. You know how close Des and I were, right?"

"Of course. He was your best friend."

"Not... quite." And now I've got one foot in the grave. There's no going back. Although it feels strangely liberating.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Des and I... we were best friends, but there was more to it..."

"What do you mean?" asks mom in a pinched type of voice. I think she's got the jist of what I'm trying to say now.

"We were... we were together. We were in love. We'd been together for a year..."

Mom doesn't say anything. I have a fleeting though that she wants to kill me with a frying pan, but to my own shock, there's more of a pressure on my bed and I feel her wrap and arm around me and squeeze. "Gerard," she whispers. "why didn't you tell me?"

"If you were me, would you have told you?"

Mom sighs. "I suppose not, no. But thank you for saying something. I appreciate it. But is that all? Mikey told me he heard commotion up here."

Fucking Mikey. "Ah, that's another story entirely. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"I don't see why not."

"Alright... that was Frank yelling at me because I was moping about Des when he wasn't feeling it. Oh, and Frank's Des's old best friend besides me, and he and I have kind of been... trying eachother out and seeing if it's what we want." I know I told my mom relatively everything, but not all. She doesn't need to know about the sex that never was. She's absorbed enough today, I think.

"Oh," she says simply.

"Yeah," I reply. "Oh."

"Well, laying here isn't going to get Frank back. You should do something about it. Call him or see him at school or whatever you have to do. I do hate seeing you sad like this."

"Thanks, Ma," I say, a little more empowered that I had been before. "I think I will."

I roll out of bed, walk around and give my mom a kiss on the cheek. I thank her for being so exponentially cool about all this, and she says it's what moms are for. I hop in the shower, eager to get my shit together, stop moping, and call Frank up. If there's someone I need right now, it's him.


End file.
